


The Mayor's Desk

by Rubynye



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Nonmonogamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo wished it were in his power for Sam never to weep again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mayor's Desk

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts to "The Mayor and the Gardener".
> 
> Dedication: Generally, to all you my friends whom I have met and made these past months in this fandom; specifically to [](http://blackbird-song.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackbird_song**](http://blackbird-song.livejournal.com/), whose drabble-words helped me finish this. *huggle* And also for everyone who was disappointed that they hadn't used the desk. *wink*

Title: The Mayor's Desk  
Pairing: Frodo/Sam  
Other pairings: Sam/Rosie mentioned  
Rating: R  
Warnings: slash, nonmonogamy, het, wist  
Summary: "Frodo wished it were in his power for Sam never to weep again. "  
Disclaimer: This is a benign avocational fabrication. .

 

_There, that's the last of them._ Leaving the document to dry, Frodo leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, and smiled when the thought came to him that Sam would soon arrive. He'd been expecting him all day; Sam had sent a letter with his plans up from the Southfarthing, and Frodo knew he wouldn't change them.

Thinking of Sam, with his earnest brown eyes and his full lower lip and his broad shoulders, Frodo smiled to himself, just a little wickedly, just a touch guiltily. He felt proddy, honest-to-goodness heat running in blood that had flowed chill and slow for far too long; it was as if he were bouncing as far up past well as he'd sunk down to illness two weeks before. Whatever the reason, Frodo certainly wasn't going to question it, and when Sam arrived Frodo intended to bar the office door behind him.

As promptly as if called, Sam arrived, smiling from the hood of his grey Lorien cloak; tucking his face into Sam's shoulder, Frodo fancied he could almost smell the breezes of the Golden Wood in its weave, mingled with Sam's warmth and the scents of sunshine and green growing things. When Frodo detached himself, several hours sooner than he'd've liked to, Sam took his hands, looking excited as a child, and Frodo smiled just to see it. Sam had been too grieved for far too long; Frodo wished it were in his power for Sam never to weep again.

Of course, it was not.

"Mr. Frodo, I have news for you!" Sam's wide hands, their callouses settling back into work-patterns rather than sword-patterns, tightened comfortably round Frodo's, warming them even in the gap left by the missing finger.

"Is it that you'll return to Bywater with me tonight?" Frodo teased, and Sam grinned and blushed at once. "Mr. Frodo," he said reprovingly, releasing Frodo's hands to unclasp his cloak and hang it up, "I've been in the Southfarthing two weeks now. You know the Gaffer'd fret if I didn't go home." Sam turned, and Frodo did indeed latch the door before turning with him. "And, on going home and all---"

"Sit down, Sam," Frodo admonished, taking Sam's elbow to tug him into the room. Sam obediently perched on the edge of the desk as Frodo sat in the wide chair, though he said, of course, "Begging your pardon, sir, but I really oughtn't to, I should be taking you out for supper----"

That, Frodo thought, could wait. "I had a late luncheon, Sam, unless you're hungry?" Sam shook his head, and Frodo leaned forward to rest folded arms on Sam's knee, curving his hand around Sam's firm thigh. What a pleasure it was, just to feel him. "Speak to me, then, my Samwise, who has indeed been away for two full weeks. Start with this news, before you burst with it."

"Well, Mr. Frodo, Bag End's ready for you!" Frodo knew this, Merry and Pippin having stopped by Bywater, but Sam was smiling ear to ear, so he fondly returned the smile and obligingly looked surprised. "Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin left me word that they'd be bringing your things back from Crickhollow. I went by on my way, and 'tis all lovely and arranged and waiting for you."

Sam's eyes shone, and Frodo eagerly took the excuse to launch himself at him and kiss him with delighted gratitude. Cupping Sam's cheerful round face in his hands, Frodo gently tilted his head back; Sam parted his lips as his arms came up around Frodo's waist, and Frodo leaned into the embrace, shifting forward as he pressed the kiss deeper. Sam's thighs parted as well, as he warmed to Frodo's kiss, pulling their bodies flush with strong hands flat on Frodo's back, and Frodo wound one arm round Sam's neck, still cradling his face in his other hand, as Sam's sweet mouth opened to him, as their tongues touched and slid and twined.

Suddenly Sam stiffened and drew back a little, loosening his four-limbed hold on Frodo, as if recalling where they were. "Sir---" he began, but his words faded out in a gasp as Frodo nuzzled his ear. "Thank you," he murmured into that ear, then ran the tip of his tongue along it from jaw to tip, as Sam began to quiver. "Thank you, Sam. I do not say that enough. I can never say that enough." Another long lick to that cherished, familiar ear, tracing the changes of their journey, the little notch left by a fall, the little bump of scar at the base. "Do you mind if we don't converse after all?"

Sam's cheek curved beneath Frodo's hand, his chest surged against Frodo's chest, and he laughed, arms and legs tightening again. "Ah, me dear sir, Mr. Frodo. I think you can make me not mind. I've aught to tell you..." Frodo tucked his face to Sam's jaw, below his ear, laying a little bite and a kiss there, and Sam gave a little moan before he could speak again. "I can tell you after, I'll tell you after. Where would you have me?"

"Why, right here," Frodo replied, smiling against Sam's neck at the expected gasp. Before Sam could protest, Frodo added in tones he hoped sounded determined, "It's _my_ desk, at least for now;" Sam laughed, squeezing him tightly. "Wild, wild," Sam said with resigned merriment, already turning his head for another kiss.

As Frodo stroked his fingers over Sam's cheek, they caught slightly; neither hand nor face were quite as smooth as they'd been before the year away, especially before the Black Land. For a moment Frodo's caress and kiss faltered at the comparison, of memories of Sam's peachy young cheek to the slightly thickened skin now, where dirt and thirst and countless scratches had left their lasting marks; feeling Frodo pause, Sam made a muffled questioning noise and began to draw back, and Frodo clutched him, kissing him almost roughly, pushing the unworthy thought away. The feel of Sam's skin, alive and warm beneath his hand after all they'd been through, was more welcome than that of silk or eiderdown, and that was what Frodo would think of, what he would let himself feel. Frodo worked his mouth over Sam's, holding him as tightly as he could, feeling Sam's living heartbeats and the strength of his shoulders, the strength which had never failed even when his own had.

His Sam. His beautiful sturdy Sam. Frodo kissed the cheek he'd held, pressed his face to Sam's curls for a moment till his eyes stopped prickling. "Sam," he said, voice noticeably roughened, "move back a little?" Sam nodded against Frodo's cheek as he shifted, till Frodo's knees rested against the side of the desk; Frodo slid his hands over Sam's wool-covered shoulders, feeling them move with his breathing, and down between their bodies to start on Sam's buttons.

Alas, between another kiss, his head tilting back as Sam's hand slid up to cup his jaw, and the loss he was still adjusting to, Frodo's fingers slipped and stumbled in their task, till Sam slid warm soothing hands down over his arms to take over. It stung, of course, but it was what was, and all the while Sam kissed him, softly yielding and claiming at once; Frodo let himself lose his thought in the feel of it, the feel of Sam, warm flesh and skin beneath Frodo's hands, the hitch of his breath and the barest chuckle in his throat as Frodo trailed his fingers down to curve them round, the slight tremble as Sam's fingers trailed down the sides of Frodo's throat, leaving all but the numb spots tingling as they slipped free the buttons of his collar.

Too soon, Frodo needed to breathe, tucking his face into Sam's curls as Sam's head sank to his shoulder. Sam's hair smelled like his cloak, of greenness and growth and springtime and male musk, and Frodo kissed those curls, kissed the scar buried amidst them, kissed the point of Sam's ear; he squeezed a little harder and felt Sam's gasping breath in his own hair, Sam's fingers shake and waver as they loosed his waistcoat.

Frodo uncurled his unmarred hand to bring it to his mouth, tasting better than just his own flesh when he licked it to wet it, hearing Sam's little chuckle-gasp as if it were his own. There had been a time, Frodo thuught with a small hidden smile, feeling Sam's breathing speed with his stroking hands, when he would have stripped them entirely out of their clothes and pushed Sam flat on his desk and tupped him, or climbed up and kissed and roused Sam into tupping him. Now Sam's fingers stroked a line down over Frodo's heart as they undid his shirt, and Frodo realized, with a rueful lack of shock, that Sam wasn't going to need to reciprocate. That happened sometimes, these days, after, the coolness that wouldn't ignite; better that, at any rate, than the other extreme, the too-strong pleasure that reminded him of It.

His heart stuttering at the memory, Frodo shuddered out of rhythm; fortunately, Sam took it for passion and kissed Frodo beneath his ear, the warmth of his lips and body pushing away the chill. Frodo pressed his face to Sam's shoulder, where even through the clothes he could feel Sam's mounting pulse, and set out to distract him from discovering that truth in this moment, and to distract himself with the reliable wonder of bringing Sam to pleasure. His Sam. His beautiful, faithful Sam.

Tilting his head back a little, Frodo watched Sam's pink-glowing face, his eyelids fluttering, his lips parted and moving as if he murmured inaudible words. Frodo stroked faster, other hand pressing hidden skin, feeling Sam's hands slide away from his buttons to tangle in his shirt, watching Sam's eyes rolling back beneath the lids. Frodo laid a kiss to one tender eyelid, Sam's lashes like damp feathers beneath his lips, and a smile flickered on Sam's face before his lips parted firther and he began softly to moan.

"Yes," Frodo murmured, barely hearing himself, watching the crease deepen between Sam's brows, his lips tremble, his warm breath puff in gasps. "Oh," Sam cried, almost singing, and looked as if he struggled to say something else, but instead he moaned low and long, rolling his head to press his face to Frodo's throat as he pulsed within and spilled over Frodo's hand.

Sam pressed his face to the crook of Frodo's shoulder, against one of the numb patches, but Frodo could remember how it had used to feel, and could smile, even if a little ruefully; he smiled wider, his eyes closing with the ache of joy, when Sam murmured, "sir, oh, sir, ah, Mr. Frodo," the words muffled against the unfeeling skin but so very clear to Frodo's heart. "Sam," he sighed in reply. "My dear Sam." Sam quivered, once, all over, and Frodo felt a tear roll down his shoulder and over the scar, where his shirt sopped it up.

Then Sam sat back, smiling a little unsteadily, already rummaging up a handkerchief, shifting with an almost carefree laugh to free Frodo's other hand. Frodo laughed with him, delighted to see him truly smile. Sometimes it had almost seemed as if all Sam's smiles were effortful things he assumed for Frodo's benefit, just one more way he cared for his master. Frodo was gladder to see them for its own sake.

Sam did up his breeches-buttons, and then reached for Frodo's waist. Struggling to keep his face light, Frodo opened his mouth, and Sam kissed him with a warm caress of tongue, then started buttoning the shirt back up as he drew back, his smile now knowing and sad rather than sunny. "You stopped me before," he said, eyes clear, voice soft. "I suppose we're done, then, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo nodded, there being nothing to say, and Sam pushed his face into the side of Frodo's throat again, hiding it, his fingers moving ceaselessly up the row of buttonholes. Frodo dropped the handkerchief and sank his hands into Sam's hair to hold him close, rueful and wistful and grateful all at once.

When Sam sat back again his earlier smile had returned, and Frodo was reasonably certain he even meant it. "Well, Mr. Frodo," he said, only a little too brightly, "after that I could do with a bite, now, if you could." Sam got down from the desk to pick up his handkerchief and do up his buttons; Frodo watched him, hale and strong and renewed as the bright spring outside. It was such a spring as living memory hadn't seen, and it would be a year like no other, Frodo knew with calm certainty as he looked at Sam, as Sam faintly flushed and answered his regard with a bashful smile. Frodo smiled back, and wished fondly and nonsensically that he might give Sam the world.

Of course he couldn't. But what he had, or might have had, he would give.

"When are you going to move in and join me, Sam?" Frodo asked. Sam turned pinker, and Frodo hid his smirk away and pretended to think Sam's worry was for his Gaffer, till Sam turned delightfully crimson. "It's Rosie, Rosie Cotton," Sam explained, blushing like a coal, and Frodo grinned and put his arm round Sam's shoulders, leaning their brows together. This, too, he had known before Sam said. His Sam, but not only his, and that was as it should be.

So he told Sam how easy it could all be, and the hope in Sam's brown eyes was like the spring sunshine as he leaned in for one more kiss.

 

*-*

 

Sam rested his face in one hand the way his children did when their lessons frustrated them. The parchments and bills spread out across the desk refused to yield an answer to the dilemma before him. With the Boffins saying one thing and the Chubb-Tooks another, and evidence on both sides, how was he to decide? Not for the first time, he murmured to himself, "Mr. Frodo, why'd you put it in a half-wit's head to be Mayor?"

Not for the first time, the thought called up memories of Frodo's days behind the mayor's desk; this time Sam remembered the day he'd told Frodo that Bag End was ready, remembered sitting on the desk, sharing kisses and pleasure, remembered Frodo's smile and the warm blue of his eyes as he'd said, "But my dear Sam, how easy!"

Sam looked up at his desk, the mayor's desk, blotting overflowing eyes as he smiled at the memory. Yes, he'd sat right there, hadn't he? Wild as tweens, and he blushed for it now, yet with all they'd been through around them, but not between them. Frodo had kissed him, and entrusted him with Bag End, and later with the mayorship and the Shire, with all the future he could see.

Frodo had given him the task, so Sam could do it.

Sam sat back, smiling, a will in each hand. He could do this, sitting at the mayor's desk.


End file.
